


Without John

by veryloyalveryquickly



Series: I Am Scared [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-29
Updated: 2012-03-29
Packaged: 2017-11-02 17:04:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/371340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veryloyalveryquickly/pseuds/veryloyalveryquickly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A follow on from my fic 'Nowhere Else I'd Rather Be'. Two months on, and Sherlock isn't coping well with John's death, until he finds a diary in John's room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Without John

**Author's Note:**

> Author's note: This is the follow on from 'Nowhere Else I'd Rather Be'. Feedback is appreciated, as I'm new on here!

**_ Without John _   
**

It had been weeks since John's death, and Sherlock Holmes was a broken man.

In his last moments, John had asked Sherlock to move on, but he couldn't. How could he move on when he'd lost the one person he'd ever truly loved? Nothing could fill the gaping hole in his chest, no person or case could ever hold as much importance as John Watson had done. He tried to carry on, for John, but he found himself drowning in his grief, with no-one to save him. There were people who tried; Lestrade, Molly, Mrs Hudson, Mycroft. They saw the change in him, saw the emptiness in his eyes, and they understood. They knew that Sherlock had lost more than just a flatmate; he'd lost his best friend, and the love of his life. Nothing they could say or do could ease the crushing sense of loneliness and loss; it was a burden he would carry with him to the grave.

There was one thing Sherlock would never forgive himself for, and it was waiting until John's dying moments to confess his love. In his darkest hours, he mourned for them, for the life they could have shared. It would not have changed the inevitable, he knew, but at least they could have had a few, precious months together. Instead, they kissed upon the bed, and then John had died, with a serene smile upon his face, and the light in Sherlock's life had been extinguished.

Without John, there was no-one to accompany him to crime scenes. Without John, there was no-one left to make sure he took care of his own basic needs. Without John, there was no-one to keep him from crumbling into dust.

* * *

One grey afternoon, Mrs Hudson tried to speak with him.

"Sherlock, it's been weeks. He wouldn't want you to be like this."

Sherlock said nothing, and continued to stare blankly at the bullet holes in the wall, remembering how John had panicked when he'd heard the gunshots. Those days were gone now.

"Are you listening to me?" Mrs Hudson's voice cut across his reverie, and his eyes flickered towards her. She looked older and more worn down than he'd ever seen before, and her eyes were red and swollen. Sherlock couldn't look at her, so he moved past and into the kitchen, clattering mugs and pans to drown out the sound of her voice. He didn't need her concern, or her pity; he didn't need anything.

"I'm rather busy Mrs Hudson, so if you could leave." Sherlock never looked up at his landlady, who hovered nearby, clutching nervously at a handkerchief.

"Sherlock, I really think you should talk to someone. I'm worried about you. You've not been the same since John di-"

In a moment of rage, Sherlock grabbed the nearest thing to him and hurled it at the wall, where it smashed into a hundred pieces. "Don't say it!" he bellowed at the quivering landlady, who stared back at him with huge, frightened eyes. Then, his eyes fell upon the ceramic shards littering the floor, and he recognised instantly what they were; John's mug, the one he always drank from.  _Used to drink from_. Sherlock sank to the floor, hardly caring as the sharp fragments dug painfully into his knees. Strangely, no tears came; he was too numb to cry. Suddenly, a pair of hands shot out, and he was enveloped in a soft embrace.

"I miss him too." Mrs Hudson was crying, her chest heaving with small sobs as she held Sherlock close. He breathed in, smelling lavender and soap and the perfume John had bought her last Christmas.

John.

In the end, everything came back to John.

* * *

The next day marked the two month anniversary of John's death. Eight weeks had passed since John had left him, and yet it felt as though only yesterday they were lying on John's bed as they shared their first, and last, kiss. Sherlock had not been in that room since, though he knew Mrs Hudson went in regularly to clean. Suddenly, he wanted more than anything to go in there again and lie on that bed; maybe if he closed his eyes, he could imagine John lying there beside him.

When he entered the room, the first thing that hit him was the emptiness. John had always been a tidy person, a habit he'd brought back with him from Afghanistan, but he'd never seen the room look so bare. The second thing he noticed was the smell. The scent of wool and Earl Grey had been replaced by the scent of fresh sheets and furniture polish, and it was all so wrong. It was not John's room anymore, it was just vacant space. It was then his eyes fell upon the stand by the bedside. He found himself moving forwards, and with one long hand, he pulled open the drawer to reveal a slim, faded notebook. With trembling fingers, he lifted it from its resting place.

After a moments hesitation, he opened the book. John's clumsy handwriting filled the first page. With a jolt, Sherlock realised that he was holding John's diary in his hands. It crossed his mind that he should not be snooping through John's personal possessions, but then he remembered that John was no longer around to care, and the thought sent a fresh wave of agony crashing through him.

The first entry was dated just over a year ago, around the time John was diagnosed.

_Cancer. Terminal._

_It's one of those things you hear about, but you never think will happen to you. Ironic, really, that I should survive Afghanistan, and living with Sherlock, only have my own body turn against me. I recognised the symptoms; headaches, stomach cramps, vomiting, dizziness. The tests confirmed it. The doctors say it's everywhere, and there's nothing they can do. I have just under a year left._

_I've already rang Harry. She didn't take it too well, but I didn't expect her to. We both cried, and she wanted me to move in with her so she could look after me. I told her I want to carry on living with Sherlock._

_Sherlock. I don't know how I'm going to tell him, though I wouldn't be surprised if he's already deduced it. If he wants me to go, I'll understand. After all, he can barely look after himself, so looking after a terminally ill man might be beyond his capabilities._

_I want to stay with him. I want him to be the last thing I see before I die. I love him, but it's too late for us._

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath to control his erratic breathing. John loved him, even then, all those months ago, not knowing that the detective felt the same way. Of course, he would never have sent John to live elsewhere; he wanted them to stay together, until death tore them apart. The mere fact that the thought even crossed John's mind felt like a cold knife piercing his chest. With a shaking hand, he turned the page.

The next entry was dated one month after the first.

_Today was a bad day. I've never experienced this kind of pain, not even when I was shot. I've suffered mild attacks before, but in comparison, this was torture. It felt like every nerve in my body was being ripped out by red hot pliers, one by one. I think it's the first time I've ever seen Sherlock truly scared. I've seen him panic before, or look nervous, but I've never seen the look of terror I saw on his face today. After I swallowed the morphine pills, the pain subsided, and I fell asleep. Sherlock carried me to bed._

_I sometimes think this is harder for him than it is for me. In a few months, I'll be gone, and he'll be left to carry on. I worry about him constantly. There are days when I wish I'd died in Afghanistan, and never met Sherlock. It would have spared us both the pain._

Sherlock stared down at the page, horrified. John was right; if they had never met, Sherlock would never have experienced the indescribable anguish and heartache John's death had brought with it. Neither would he have experienced the joy, the happiness that John's presence in his life had given him, short-lived as it was. Even when Sherlock was at his lowest, he never for one moment regretted meeting John Watson.

The next entry was not dated, but Sherlock guessed it was written a couple of months after the first, around three months after John had been diagnosed.

_My hair has started to fall out now, and I'm losing weight quickly. I just don't have an appetite anymore, though Sherlock tries to convince me to eat. Most of the time, I throw it back up an hour later._

_Sherlock is struggling. He looks terrible, like he's not slept in days, and he probably hasn't. There have been a few occasions when I've woken up in the middle of the night to find him watching me. In the past, I'd have shouted at him for intruding into my personal space, but I hardly see how it matters now. Privacy is no longer of any importance, and I no longer feel embarrassed when Sherlock has to help me get dressed, or bathe. I never expected him to be so caring, but it seems as though he's put his whole life on hold to make these last few months more comfortable for me. He no longer takes cases, instead choosing to stay at the flat with me. When we do go out, we do simple things, like visit the supermarket or take a short walk around the park. We never go far, I get tired too easily to walk long distances, but it means a lot to me just to be able to get out of the flat. I know it won't be long before I'm too weak to do these things._

_Sometimes, I catch the expression on his face when he thinks I'm not looking. It is a look of such overwhelming sadness that I can't help feeling that this is killing us both._

There were nineteen entries altogether, each detailing John's innermost thoughts and feelings about his impending death. One of them, written nine months into his illness, described his opinion on life after death, something he never mentioned to Sherlock.

_At the hospital, talking to other cancer patients, I often hear people discussing what awaits us when we die. Many think people an eternity of bliss in Heaven awaits. Others believe in reincarnation, and that when we die, our soul moves into a new living body. We could come back as anything; a human, a mosquito, a tree, anything. Personally, I'd like to come back as a rose; a single red rose, timeless in its beauty, immortal in its elegance, perfect only for a moment as it blooms, and then it dies, ready to be born again._

_I don't believe in it though. Nor do I believe in the pearly gates. No, death brings nothing, except decay. The heart stops beating, the blood stops flowing, and that's it. My body will be returned to the earth, where it will rot. This doesn't frighten me; death becomes life, and so the elements that made up my body will be taken in by other plants and animals, and enable them to grow. In a way, it is a comfort._

Once again, Sherlock found himself shocked at John's calm acceptance. He'd been scared, but never had he let his illness get the better of him. This stirred a strong emotion in Sherlock, something resembling respect and maybe even pride. John had been brave, a soldier until the very end.

There was only one entry after that. Unlike the others, which had been scrawled messily upon the paper, this one was written neatly, with obvious effort and care. Sherlock judged it could only have been written weeks before John's death.

_Dear Sherlock,_

_I know that if you are reading this, I must be gone. There was no doubt in my mind that you'd find this, eventually, but I knew that you wouldn't search through my personal possessions until I'd passed, which I'm assuming I have. I'm writing to tell you a few things I never got to say, and now never will._

_I love you. I've loved you for months now, but by the time I'd worked up the courage to tell you, it was too late. I got sick, and I decided that I couldn't tell you, knowing that I only had a little time left. I'm not stupid, Sherlock. I know you care for me. I never believed that you were a sociopath, not for one second, despite what you claimed. I'm honoured to have been one of the few people you let into your world, and believe me when I say, I never wanted to leave. I wanted to stay there forever._

_I am more scared for you than I am for myself. Now, as I write this, I feel that if death were to greet me tomorrow, I'd welcome it with open arms. I don't want to die, but death is the only way to escape the constant agony that is now my life. The only regret I have is leaving you, when I know we could have spent so many more wonderful years together._

_During your three year 'death', I fell apart. I let the memory of you consume my waking hours, until I forgot what it felt like to live. Please, Sherlock, don't do that to yourself. You have so much ahead of you, so much that I wish I could be there for, but you cannot let the fact that I'm not stop you from trying. Live, Sherlock. Live for me, but above all, you must live for yourself. I know it will not be easy, I've been there myself, and I was not strong enough, but you've always been stronger than me. I know you can do it, Sherlock._

_Never forget that there are people around you who love you. Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, not to mention your brother. Let them help you, and in return, you will be helping them. It's not a sign of weakness to admit you need help; in fact, I think it's the bravest thing you can do._

_Do whatever you will with this. I don't need it anymore, not where I am. Just know that I want you to be happy, even if that means forgetting me. I've seen you do it before, and I understand. I need you to carry on, and live your life. You told me once that heroes don't exist, but you were always a hero to me._

_I love you._

_John H. Watson._

Sherlock only noticed he was crying when a droplet splashed down onto the page, blurring the writing there. Tears were running down his cheeks, tears of sadness, but also of relief and happiness. Sadness, because the man he loved was gone, and was never coming back, but relief that John had known. In his final moments, John had known that Sherlock loved him, and happiness because although John was dead, Sherlock now knew that he would never truly leave. He would always be a part of Sherlock's life, and no matter how long he lived, and who he met along the way, no-one would ever replace him. John was, and would always be, Sherlock's heart.

* * *

The next morning, Sherlock knew what he needed to do. When Mrs Hudson found him in the morning, he was not lying on the sofa, as he usually was. Instead, he was sat at the kitchen table, dressed in a clean suit, an empty plate in front of him.

"Sherlock? What's going on?"

Sherlock moved quickly, and before the landlady could react, she was pulled into Sherlock's chest. "Thank you," she heard him whisper, burying his head in her shoulder, and she smiled, wrapping her own arms around him. It was a long, tough road, but Sherlock had taken the first step forward.

Sherlock made sure to phone Molly and thank her for her support. "Sherlock, I'll always be here for you if you ever need to talk."

Next was Lestrade, who seemed surprised but relieved that Sherlock had called, and he assured Sherlock that there would be work for him whenever he was ready to return. "These things take time. Just so you know, I'm always willing to lend an ear."

Lastly was the phone call to Mycroft. His brother was unusually kind and sympathetic. "Sherlock, I'm so sorry. I knew what John meant to you. I'll do whatever I can to make things easier for you; you only need ask."

Sherlock was touched by their kindness, all of them. It took more courage than he was willing to admit, but he was grateful that he didn't have to do it alone.

* * *

The book was hidden beneath Sherlock's pillow, where prying eyes would never look. On the bad days, he read John's words, and it gave him the strength to carry on. John had been so brave, and so Sherlock would be brave for him, though it was hard. And every month, on the anniversary of his death, he visited John's grave, leaving a single red rose on the earth.

He always left with the same words.

"I love you, John Watson."


End file.
